Epoch-1: New and Collected Sci-Fi Stories

By Astaire

From L. Ron Hubbard Golden Pen winner Desmond Astaire comes fourteen short stories spanning time travel to parallel universes to artificial intelligence and beyond, collected in one book for the first time-including new stories never seen before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: King & Vagabond Press, LLC
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990172029

Astaire

Desmond Astaire is an American author of science fiction, fantasy, and paranormal fiction. He was first published by Galaxy Press in 2022 and has since published stories in the United States, Australia, and the United Kingdom. In his other life, Astaire is a superintendent for a military public relations unit, where he supervises the training and operations of multimedia content creators. Astaire lives in Central Illinois with his wife and son. He is the recipient of awards including the L. Ron Hubbard Golden Pen, the Benjamin Franklin Award Gold Medal, and the Independent Publisher Book Awards Gold Medal for Science Fiction.

Book preview

Epoch-1

New and Collected Sci-Fi Stories

Desmond Astaire

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King & Vagabond Press, LLC

Copyright © 2022–2024 by Desmond Astaire

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact King & Vagabond Press, LLC.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

First edition 2024

Cover art by Lealan Buehrer

Calmly We Walk Through This April’s Day from Selected Poems (1938-1958): Summer Knowledge. Copyright © 1967 by Delmore Schwartz. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation, www.norton.com

The following titles were first published as follows:

Cherenkov Time. In ZNB Presents: Year One, edited by Joshua Palmatier. Binghamton, NY: Zombies Need Brains, 2023.

Gallows. In Writers of the Future Volume 38, edited by David Farland. Los Angeles: Galaxy Press, 2022.

It’s a Nash Equilibrium, Then. In Fission 3, edited by Eugen Bacon and Gene Rowe. Stoke-on-Trent, GB-ENG: The British Science Fiction Association, 2023.

Obsidian Grackle. In Murderbirds, edited by Mike Jack Stoumbos. Midlothian, VA: WonderBird Press, 2023.

Old Dean. In HyphenPunk Magazine #9. Johnson City, TN: HyphenPunk, 2023.

Paranorm. Morton, IL: King & Vagabond Press, 2023.

The Otherworld Theory. In Aurealis, Vol. 162. Mount Waverley, Vic: Chimaera Publications, 2023.

You Are the Mother of Doomsday. In Murderbugs, edited by Mike Jack Stoumbos. Midlothian, VA: WonderBird Press, 2024.

Reviews

What the Readers are Saying

"Pacy paranormal mystery laser-targeted for those of us who grew up on  Buffy, Angel, and The X-Files."

–J.L. George, author of The Word and New Welsh Writing Award recipient

Desmond Astaire creates another intriguing read that is fast paced with a satisfying ending.

–N.V. Haskell, author of Out There With Them, Robotic Ambitions and Writers of the Future winner

Heart-pounding science fiction that will keep you in its grip from beginning to end. A true joy to read.

–Ryan Cole, Writers of the Future winner

A rising talent in science fiction and fantasy with a promise of much more to come!

–Shannon Fox, author of Empire’s Song and recipient of Colorado Book Award for Best Anthology

"For lovers of The Twilight Zone." –Tangent Online

If Hitchcock had done sci-fi, he would have done something like this. –Goodreads review

You never know how you will impact the flow of time.

My upmost gratitude to—

Dean Wesley Smith, whose work inspired a child to start writing short stories;

Dr. Chris Johnson, for reading everything I've ever written since the beginning;

Lindsey, my beloved partner in turning the world's dreams to reality;

the generous Galaxy Press and Writers of the Future, who first published me;

Kevin J. Anderson, Dr. Doug Beason, Dr. Gregory Benford, Orson Scott Card, David Farland, Eric Flint, Brian Herbert, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Nancy Kress, Katherine Kurtz, Todd McCaffrey, Rebecca Moesta, Larry Niven, Jody Lynn Nye, Dr. Nnedi Okorafor, Tim Powers, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Brandon Sanderson, Dr. Robert J. Sawyer, Robert Silverberg, Dean Wesley Smith, S.M. Stirling, and Dr. Sean Williams,

whose expertise played a role in setting everything in motion.

Contents

Preface

Epigraph

1.Cherenkov Time

2.Don't Speak to the Children

3.Gale’s Universal Escape Plan

4.Gallows

5.It’s a Nash Equilibrium, Then

6.Just a Latte

7.Laurel Leaves' Message

8.Love, Hate, and Dog Brain

9.Obsidian Grackle

10.Old Dean

11.Paranorm

12.Peacemaker Awakens

13.The Otherworld Theory

14.You Are the Mother of Doomsday

About the Author

Preface

This book represents the culmination of the first generation of my storytelling adventures. They were written over a period of four years, and rereading each one slings me back to a different emotion and memory in time. May your anchors in time always glow with warmth.

I still cherish each of these stories like a father admiring his growing family. I gave birth to them. I raised them the best I knew how to. And then I sent each one of them out into the world, with both pride and fear. I hope they touch something in people's souls. These stories are part of me, and now you.

Master music producer Rick Rubin said it best: I’m not making it for [the audience]. I’m making it for me. And, it turns out, that when you make something truly for yourself, you’re doing the best thing you possibly can for the audience. I thoroughly enjoyed these stories, and I hope you do as well.

Thank you for sharing the world with me, and I hope to see you next time, too.

With thanks,

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-Des

What am I now that I was then?

May memory restore again and again 

The smallest color of the smallest day: 

Time is the school in which we learn, 

Time is the fire in which we burn.

Delmore Schwartz

Cherenkov Time

It should take somewhere around 7.2 exajoules of energy to stop time, according to my internet math. That’s the power of thirty-four Russian nukes going off at the same time, but somehow nature built my body to harness it. I can’t explain that, don’t try to, and I sure as hell am not going to let a government lab try and figure it out. There’s only one person (and you) who knows that I can stop time and I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t do it often because the aftermath makes an I’ll-never-drink-again hangover seem like the sniffles.

There were a good handful of short stops here and there that didn’t wreck me. I got pretty good at those. But the big ones, I wrote those down in the journal. I tried to get the times right for you. 

The first time was December 3rd, 2013, south side of Chicago, when that guy almost put a bullet in me during an arrest. Almost. A few more minutes in the void and Time would’ve killed me and I never would’ve known it.

There were more times than I want to count later that month at Glace Bay University Medical Center. Medical tests over and over and over, trying to figure out what was making me sick. I thought I was going to die right there on the exam table. Turns out we found out how to keep me alive.

August 19th, 2019, River North Hospital, when I met my newborn son and the terror of caring for another life finally landed. I told myself I’d take just a few minutes to process it. That fear turned into unconditional love so quickly. 

And now. September 12th, 2021, Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The police department puts on family retreat weekends, usually at a waterpark lodge type of place. We do bonding activities and resiliency workshops during the day with the chaplains, then dine and swim with our fellow cop families in the evenings.

My cell phone rings while I help Chaplain Dan set up the conference room for the day’s workshops.

Tucker, I, uh, I c-can’t find Will. 

It’s Riya, but I’ve never heard that shaking in her voice before.

What do you mean, ‘You can’t find Will?’ I ask.

I was taking a shower a-a-and he was watching cartoons on the couch and the door was open w-when I got out.

How long ago?

Twenty minutes, I think.

Shit.

Okay, baby, stay calm. Where have you looked so far?

I swear, I didn’t think he could reach the door handle. I— Her voice cracks and she collapses into loud, desperate sobs. "Tucker, I can’t find Will!"

Chaplain Dan overhears the commotion. He’s concerned. I don’t have time to explain.

Riya, where have you looked? I’m trying to stay calm, but the adrenaline is kicking in. There’s a snap in my voice.

Uh, umm, the room, the entire room, the h-hallway, the top of the stairwell. There’s a family up here. They didn’t see him. Oh god, please, oh god.

I’m not so worried about how far a two-year-old can get, more about what happens to him when he’s there. 

The conference room is near the lobby. I can see outside. Unfamiliar faces checking out, loading their cars. Cars leaving the resort and turning onto the highway. Thick woods and ravines surrounding the property. Today’s supposed to be a low of forty degrees and it’s raining.

I pull out my special watch, wrap it around my wrist, and ready my thumb on the starter button. I’ve got one jump-start syringe in my pocket—just one. The next delivery won’t arrive until Tuesday.

Stay right there, Riya. I’m coming up.

I clench my fists, flexing whatever mystery muscle is up there in my head until I start to see the blue glow surround me, then everything goes silent. Sound doesn’t travel in the void of timelessness.

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December 3rd, 2013

It doesn’t take long for a rookie cop to get indoctrinated into the rotted streets of the Windy City. I’d been working midnights on a South Side beat for two years and had already seen enough to jade me. Not many surprises anymore. I don’t know why that night in particular was different.

232-Robert.

232-Robert, go Squad.

Received a report of an armed robbery at Washington Park Pharmacy. Suspect is one white male, black coat, blue watch cap over braids, tattoos on face and neck. Victim reported the suspect showed a revolver, took a prescription bottle, and fled on foot southbound on Michigan Avenue.

10-99, Squad. On my way from South Indiana and East 57th.

10-4.

232, 225. Let me know your 20. I’ll meet you there.

Copy.

Nine times out of ten I’d show up on-scene, take a good report, we’d put out a Be on the Lookout message to the other patrol units, and (statistically speaking) that’d probably be the end of it. But not that night.

Sure enough, the suspect turned the corner of the Michigan Avenue liquor store right as I came up to the intersection. He was a tall, lanky kid, not much younger than me. Unmistakable. I wasn’t running my lights or sirens, so I saw him before he saw me. I called it in, flipped on the berries and cherries, and gunned the accelerator. Whipping my cruiser into the store’s back lot gave the suspect two options: backtrack into the open intersection where I or my backup could more easily take him down on foot or try to go through me and disappear into the residential area behind us.  

There’s always that fraction of a second where you can see a suspect freeze and their instinct decides what’s going to happen next. My guy decided on Option Two, but I was an all-state running back in high school.

He made it across the lot and into the alley before we collided against an iron fence for the fight. I made a mistake. I should’ve pulled my stun gun while we were sprinting. I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because when I did get a chance to break away from him and fire it off, nothing happened. I saw the laser light on his chest and heard the unmistakable electric crackle, but the suspect ripped the darts right off his jacket as soon as they landed.

It was the jacket: it was too thick. The darts didn’t pierce through. And it was at that moment that the suspect took out his weapon. I felt a tingle of panic charge up my temples the instant I saw the glimmer of the steel revolver peek out from his pocket.

Drop your weapon! Raw instinct. My left palm went up, my right hand down to my pistol. My regular holster broke the week earlier, so I was using my backup—a model referred to as a suicide holster due to a propensity for its flap hook to get stuck. Which is exactly what happened.

The suspect had his gun all the way out and I was still fumbling for mine. It was all over now. I knew it.

"No. No. Stop!"

The suspect leveled his gun on me and I felt something in my chest. Not pain or terror, but heat. An energy. Something solid. I was sure he had pulled the trigger and I was about to die, because I could see a heavenly light enveloping me. 

The suspect froze, his gun still trained right on me, but I was somehow still standing. So I ripped my holster open, pulled my firearm, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened. 

But of course, I didn’t realize this at first due to the adrenaline surging through my blood. My first clue should have been the suspect’s stuck, twisted expression. What was he waiting for? Maybe he was stoned out of his mind. Maybe he was having second thoughts. I didn’t waste any time figuring it out.

I yanked the revolver out of his hand, secured it in my belt, and pulled his arms behind his back to handcuff them. He was stiff as starch.

"On your knees, now."

He didn’t comply, so I applied pressure to the back of his knee and leaned him backward. He stayed rigid.

Come on, man, get on…

It was then I realized it wasn’t him that wasn’t complying. It was gravity. It had just stopped. So had sound. So had movement. Everything. My patrol car’s lights—usually rotating red and blue—were stuck on blue. It made it difficult to see the blue, aura-like glow following me everywhere I went. But it made it easy to see the bullet hovering right where I had been standing.

I knelt in front of it to get a better look. There was no blood on it, no disfigurement, so it hadn’t hit me. All of which was great, but didn’t even begin to answer why it was suspended mid-air. In the middle of all of it, my eyes trained on some dark, disembodied shadow person strobing its away across the lot toward me, blipping in and out of existence. Freakiest nightmare fuel I’d ever seen.

I knew it couldn’t be real. This had to be a seizure or purgatory, maybe a catatonic dream or coma—something I could let go of and wake up from. 

Something about that realization worked because that bullet I was eyeballing came back to life right then. It ripped across my cheek and knocked me down, but the agonizing heartbeat pounding out of my chest, violent tremors, and complete muscle failure kept me from getting back up.

And then the suspect was standing over me, kicking my already nauseated stomach over and over again.

"How’d you do that? How’d you do that, man?"

He looped his cuffed hands around his legs, yanked me to my feet, pinned me against the fence, and put my own gun to my forehead. It was searing hot against the sweat I was raining, but I was too crippled to fight back.

What just happened? he pleaded through grit teeth. I was slipping in and out of consciousness, fighting a crushing fatigue, but I distinctly remember his eyes were glossy. It was terror. How did you do that? he begged.

POP, POP, POP, POP!

I collapsed to the ground along with the suspect.

225-Robert, 11-41, officer down, East 56th and Michigan!

It was my partner, Darnell.

Tuck, where are you hit? He ripped my shirt open and patted down my bulletproof vest for entry wounds. Tuck, talk to me, bro. Jesus, you’re burning up.

Not…shot. Thirsty…thirsty. It hurt to make words through cotton mouth and sandpaper lips, but stronger than that was my body desperately screaming for hydration.

Darnell rubbed some snow across my forehead, put a little bit in my mouth, and it helped me stay conscious for a few moments.

Stay awake, Tuck. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. I think Darnell was saying it more for himself than for me.

That was the first time I stopped the clock. After that, I’d get better at controlling the side effects, but that crash would never let me forget the inevitable cost of such a power.

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Present

I sprint down the hotel hallway and up the back stairs, instinctively making mental notes of everything I see—a perk of the job. The blue shadow glow following me is a byproduct of moving through stopped time and it will help mark where I’ve already searched for my boy. Thankfully, we’re staying on the second floor. Even more fortunately, the elevator doors are open for a family getting ready to go down to the pool.

There’s no sign of Will. None.

Our hotel room door is propped open by the swing bar lock, which is great because my electronic keycard wouldn’t work in the void. Riya is on the couch with her head in her hands. She’s a good mother. She’s just scared. I want to stop and whisper to her that everything will be okay, but I can’t afford that luxury. Time is actually a commodity in timelessness. 

I look at my stopwatch and it reads ninety-six seconds timeless. That’s two days and some change aged.

I tear into all the places a toddler could hide in an extended stay hotel suite—inside cabinets, under furniture, behind curtains. Not a lot of real estate. My heart kicks at each new hiding spot in hopes of finding that giant smile holding up squishy cheeks and bright eyes. 

Nothing.

The hotel room is a bust, along with the elevator and a stairwell. There’s no time to sacrifice to second-guessing. I have to keep moving. There’s a second stairwell at the far end of the hallway and that’s my next target. My head pulsates and buzzes as I begin losing the battle of paternal panic. I can’t think straight, can’t recall what my police training would tell me to do next. But my worst fears say to start looking in the cars leaving the resort.

I reach to my belt behind my right hip to double-check that I’m carrying my duty pistol. It’s there, right next to the last jump-start injection, and I’m definitely going to need it now.

The stopwatch says it’s been three minutes, nine seconds timeless. Six days aged.

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December 16th, 2013

All the hospital doctors could diagnose was that I wasn’t going to